


Silent Love

by CanadianSnow (ShelbyCelina)



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Declarations Of Love, Fluff and Angst, M/M, One Shot, POV Third Person, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 17:25:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7583116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShelbyCelina/pseuds/CanadianSnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon spends the day in silence, something that worries Baz. He's more than aware his boyfriend isn't great with words, but his paranoia begins to set in the longer he thinks about it.</p><p>Meanwhile, Simon contemplates the words he desperately wants to say to Baz. </p><p>This is a one shot AU, where Simon and Baz went to boarding school together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Love

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Disclaimer time: I've never written in 3rd person POV. But, I'm trying new things, and thought I would try a new POV. 
> 
> All comments are welcome! As are any corrections. Oh, and as usual this is about triple the length I wanted it to be because brevity is no friend of mine.

**BAZ**

Simon was being unusually quiet. Worryingly quiet. It wasn’t uncommon for him to go a few hours without speaking, but usually there was something. A grunt. A shrug. Eye contact. Baz couldn’t remember the last thing Simon had said to him. Was it good morning? It was nearing midnight now. Surely he hadn’t gone the entire day without a word? Baz tried to recall his day, everything he had done.

His days were shrouded in routine. Breakfast. School. Studying. Football practice. He tried to recall all the moments he saw Simon. When he woke up. At lunch. In the café where they met between classes every Tuesday and Thursday. _No_. There was no way Simon had gone the entire day without speaking. Baz would have noticed. As a boyfriend, and as a decent (albeit not great, but decent enough) human being in the presence of another person wouldn’t he have noticed?  Baz was sure he asked Simon how his day was earlier. And Simon responded—

Baz grimaced. He _had_ asked Simon a question in the café.

They met at their usual table. Baz was surprised to see Simon there before him. Arriving on time wasn’t one of his skills. Simon had been folding and refolding the edge of the paper bag his scone had come in. He seemed lost in thought. “Snow, did English go all right today?” Baz asked. Because he knew Simon was worried about the class. Simon looked at him, his eyes penetrating. Baz was certain Simon had the most intense gaze he had ever seen.

Baz could recall Simon’s mouth opening, like he was on the verge of saying something. It was then that Baz noticed the crumb on his boyfriend’s bottom lip. It was thoroughly distracting. So, he reached out his hand, tsking to himself, as he brushed his thumb gently over the offending piece of food, before tipping over the table and kissing Simon. He couldn’t resist.

He _never_ forgot kissing Simon. Just like he never forgot the way Simon always froze, like he was in the throes of an internal debate, like he wasn’t entirely sure the moment was real. He loved how each kiss started hesitant and slow. It only lasted a moment, because then Simon would always kiss him back, with such intensity and fervor it usually left him breathless. It was one of the things Baz loved most about his boyfriend.

He definitely remembered Simon kissing him back in the café and the small sigh that escaped his lips.

But then—

Baz sat back, smirking, enjoying Simon’s blushing face, forgetting he had asked a question at all.

His mind always became a blank slate after kissing Simon. It was like his kisses were magic, erasing every carefully crafted worry and thought Baz had spent the day agonizing over.

It occurred to Baz that he really did go the entire day without hearing Simon’s voice. If he thought about it, it wasn’t entirely astonishing. His boyfriend was never going to be a politician or a lawyer. Spoken words were intangible to him. He avoided longer sentences, tripped over complex words, and furrowed his brow whenever he was asked his opinion on something.

He had opinions.

Brilliant and clever thoughts swirled in Simon’s brain.

Well, sometimes.

Sometimes he really was utterly hopeless.

But, words weren’t his forte. They never had been. It was his courage and kindness, his strength and tenacious approach to life that Baz admired most.

Back when they were still at Watford, and they shared not just a room but also a schedule of classes, there was a fifth year Sociology assignment where everyone was asked to write what they feared most on a post-it note. It was anonymous, and everyone submitted their little notes at the end of class without a second thought. Until the next day, when the classroom had thirty brightly coloured post-it notes stuck to the walls, doors, and windows. Everyone got to spend the first ten minutes of class examining their peers' fears. It was oddly intimate. Both invasive and comforting. It was also incredibly interesting to see the range of answers. Such a simple question— what do you fear most—answered in thirty different ways.

Baz found Simon’s answer stuck to the back of a door. He recognized his unique handwriting— a consequence of Simon constantly leaving his notes spread across their shared desk. He honestly wasn’t looking for his answer, he just happened upon it, staring a little longer at it than the others and wondering why it seemed familiar. It was nestled between a fear of spiders and a fear of death. Both were fears that Baz couldn’t comprehend. It wasn’t like they lived on an island with killer spiders. And death. Death was imminent. He didn’t have a death wish, but he certainly wasn’t going to spend his life worrying about dying. Where was the living in that? Baz thought he might as well have a death wish if that were the case.

He stared at Simon’s post-it until the blue paper burned into his memory. It made so much sense. Everything he had tormented Simon for was staring back at him from the blue post-it; his inability to use words properly, his blustering, his terrible grasp on basic ideas. He felt the hot wash of shame.

 _Speaking_.

Baz could picture him writing each letter, his hand a little too shaky, and the pen clearly pressing too hard. The ink was smeared. No one else wrote something so unusual. The closest was someone put ‘giving presentations’. But, Baz was sure Simon's single word was more intricate. He thought of Simon and everything he knew about him, and in that moment he knew Simon feared _all_ speaking— and that it likely extended beyond a fear of public speaking and deeper than a fear of ridicule or social anxiety. It was the words themselves. It was saying them. Regardless of anyone else around. Baz wondered if Simon could even talk easily aloud on his own? Or if the words got stuck; if he had to force his thoughts through his teeth the same way he did around other people? 

Baz’s own green post-it had been stuck to the front window, close to a fear of clowns and a fear of water. _Disappointing her_ was written in his slanted, elegant cursive _._ He didn't clarify the _her_. It wasn't something he felt particularity open to sharing, even under the guise of anonymity. No one approached him about it, but he did notice Simon staring at his own note the same way he had stared at his.

That was almost four years ago. After, Baz made more of an effort to watch Simon's facial expressions and body language. He understood Simon when he grunted, growled, or shrugged. He understood exactly what Simon was trying to say when he stared at him with his unremarkable blue eyes. He said more staring at him than he ever did with words. Simon wore his expressions tirelessly on his face.

Which is why normally Baz wasn’t concerned if Simon wasn’t talking. But, this? Today? This was different.

Baz was worried.

Simon was making himself a cup of tea, and Baz couldn’t do anything but watch. He was trying to read the hunch of his shoulders, the slight pout to his lips. Had he pissed him off? Had he said something unkind?

Baz had come home later than usual—exhausted and irritated. Most days were draining for him. But, today had been especially testing of his patience. He was his father’s son, making fake pleasantries and civil conversation with people he wanted to pummel (although that line of thinking was usually more of Snow’s thing than his). It was just one of those days, and Baz had been planning on nestling into Simon and using him as a human teddy-bear to re-charge.

He no longer cared about his pride. There was no point in pride when you had someone like Simon Snow waiting for you at home. It only got in the way, only made him regret his choices or go to bed without feeling the weight of his warm boyfriend curled into him. He had stopped letting pride dictate his actions almost as soon as he started dating Simon. Kissing and intertwined limb. Whispered lovely words. It was all so much more rewarding than his pride had ever been. 

When he opened the door Simon had been laying on the couch, headphones in, tablet propped on his chest. Baz had called out and Simon had smiled. He had even given him a half wave. But, he hadn’t _spoken_. Baz hadn’t thought much of it. He assumed his boyfriend was listening to an audiobook—something he did frequently. Listening was easier for him than reading. It always had been.  

Now though, now Simon _still_ wasn’t saying anything. He was making his tea in complete silence.

“Snow?” Baz said softly.

Simon turned to him and grinned, like he hadn't seen Baz in years, not minutes.

It turned his insides to mush.

\---

Baz was constantly surprised just how soft he could be around Simon. It didn’t used to be that way. Not before. When they were roommates at boarding school and relentlessly at each other’s throats. When every day felt like one of them was going to explode violently on the other. Back then Baz was made of sneers and jabs. He was cruel, unforgiving, and fucking ruthless.

 _Especially_ with Simon.

 _Simon_. His forced roommate—he wasn’t supposed to have one at all. Simon was the poor kid that got in on pity, a last second admittance. Baz could remember getting the letter, two weeks before the start of term, informing him that he would, after all, be enjoying the company of a roommate. When Baz saw the name on his roommate sheet he panicked. The last name. He knew it. He would never be able to forget it.

For a time, it was plastered across the news, always in the same articles detailing the tragic loss of the Grimm-Pitch matriarch. Even still, yearly on the anniversary, some society section of a local paper would inevitably re-hash all the details Baz could recite by heart. (Not that he wanted to, but it was something he could do all the same.)

His father confirmed his suspicions when Baz showed him his roommate assignment. Malcolm Grimm’s expression turned serious. “Simon Snow?” His father said. “Yes, I think… I think Davy did have a son. Simon—I remember Natasha once said she liked his name. Yes. It likely is him. Be careful with him, Basil. His father’s a tyrant. A menace. Completely fucked up. I imagine the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Those were the words Baz had ringing in his head when Simon extended his small hand that very first day to him.

_He’s fucked up. His father killed my mother. He doesn’t deserve to be here._

Baz was already all too familiar with Simon’s father—Davy Snow. The man, as far as he was concerned, who had killed his mother. A stupid, careless man. Baz didn’t have patience for careless people. Davy Snow had been fired from the Grimm Company six years before both boys started boarding school. Malcolm Grimm had been the one to fire him. He had stopped showing up for work, and when he did show up, he was reeking of stale alcohol and poor life choices (that was an exact descriptor Baz had read in an article once.) Natasha Grimm-Pitch lost her life in a car accident the same year. Her son was in the back seat. The paramedics were able to extract him from the wreckage, but his mother’s door had been sealed shut on impact. They didn’t have enough time to save them both before the car was engulfed in flames.

It was a design flaw.

Any other car and she would have been fine.

Every article Baz read said the same thing. Davy Snow approved the design on the car his mother had been driving. How could he not blame him? How could he not hate his son by extension?

So, Baz never shook Simon’s hand. And he let him know from the moment he stepped foot in their shared room that they were _not_ going to be friends. He didn’t care how many shy, lopsided grins his roommate tried to give him that first week. Baz Pitch was going to hate Simon Snow with everything he had.

It came as somewhat of a relief to Baz that Simon only actively tried to be his friend for a week. He was worried he was going to spend eight years being an arse to someone who gave nothing but kindness in return. He welcomed Simon’s anger when it started to appear more frequently. He learned that Simon could give as good as he took, and he liked that about him. It made things more interesting. It made him less of a villain.

It became an experiment of sorts. He pushed Simon to the edge daily. He found his weak points and he hit them hard, and then he hit them again for good measure. He refused to show any compassion to the son of a murderer. Only, little by little, Baz began to realize Simon wasn’t _anything_ like his father, which was problematic to his experiments. He also hated that he noticed. He hated that he couldn’t stop thinking that perhaps his own father’s warnings were misguided.

Simon didn’t seem to have a relationship with Davy, and Baz couldn’t help the pity that would slosh through his belly angrily when he looked at him. He learned (indirectly through rumors, because he would never stoop so low as to ask) that Simon lost his mother when he was a baby. That Davy had been an absent father with too many demons to take care of himself let alone a kid. Baz quickly came to understand that Simon was constantly repenting for his father’s mistakes. It was too late though. The damage had been done. Baz had planted the seed of hate, and Simon had let it grow. For every sneer Baz gave, Simon growled an obscenity back. He was sure no one else had been called a pretentious twat as many times as he had.

By the end of their first year as roommates Baz had grown accustomed to being on the receiving end of Simon’s outbursts. Outbursts he usually encouraged. He had felt Simon’s raw hatred. It wasn’t exactly a feeling he relished in, but it was too late. His roommate officially hated him around the exact time Baz realized he was in love with him. He had fucked himself over. To an epic degree. It would have been laughable, if it weren't so completely tragic.

Baz would always remember the exact moment he realized what he had done. It was a dreary November day. Mid-week, if he was remembering correctly. He had just finished calling Simon a pathetic beggar for stealing extra scones from breakfast, when a fist connected with Baz's jaw. He had never been punched before, and the pain radiated through his skull harshly. Baz was stunned. Someone had _actually_ called him on his shit—on his smart-assed mouth he was always being told to stop running.  It took Simon two months to do what no one else ever had. He had unnerved Baz, so much so that Baz let his mask of indifference slip after he was hit. He bit his lip, eyes watering, and turned, trying not to show his shaking hands as they clutched his jaw.

When Simon apologized, his burning fingers reaching out to touch the burst skin on Baz’s face, Baz knew he was fucked. He knew this boy, with his trembling voice and bronzed messy curls, was going to be his own weakness. He knew that no matter how many weaknesses he discovered of Simon’s, Simon was always going to win. Because even at twelve, Baz loved how Simon’s hand felt against him, he loved how Simon started to cry — genuine and massive sobs raking through his small body — as he apologized. He loved that someone could feel guilty for hurting him. When he was around Simon he felt... _worthwhile_. It was dangerous.

It took Baz longer than it should have to pinpoint the exact nature of his feelings. When he finally realized that he was in love with the boy he had sworn to hate, that he had been since day one, and that he likely always would be, he couldn’t figure out how to show it. He couldn't imagine any scenario where he didn't love Simon, but he also couldn't imagine any scenario where he could repair what had already been broken between them. Sometimes, usually late at night when he had been trying not to watch the rise and fall of Simon's chest across the room, he had thought that maybe, just maybe, Simon could forgive him. He had always known that Simon had compassion running through his blood the same way Baz had coldness. But, then he would remind himself that loving someone like Simon, someone so full to the brim with life and emotion, wasn't going to work for him. If he allowed himself to ask for Simon's forgiveness, he would then have to admit to all that was wrong inside of him. He would have to admit that he often felt like he wasn’t allowed to have nice things—and Simon was the nicest thing Baz had known in a long time— in his cold, detached life; the life he had felt he deserved. It was his punishment for surviving. It had been easier to continue on with his charade of hate, than it was to figure out how to react to the powerful feeling and weak knees he got every time Simon was near him. 

But, that was before. Now Baz could be soft with Simon. He allowed himself to indulge. He liked to stroke Simon’s hair, while pressing gentle kisses into his tawny skin. He liked pulling Simon into his lap so he could run his hands delicately over his broad features. Now he poured love into everything he did for Simon.

Because he still loved him. Endlessly. Hopelessly. And without conditions.

\---

Simon still hadn't actually given a verbal response to Baz. Instead, he tilted his head towards the cupboards and lifted his lips in his goofy half smile that Baz adored. _Would you like a cup?_ Baz knew this was what Simon was asking, and normally he would have nodded his agreement. But tonight, tonight he _needed_ to hear Simon’s voice.

He wondered for a split second if the last few months had been a dream, and this was simply him waking up. This was dream Simon fading back into reality, slowly, tortuously. This was dream Simon becoming a memory. A voice was always the first to slip away. It happened with his mother. Baz stopped being able to recall the cadence of her words long before he forgot the exact curve of her nose and the exact way her hair would fall around her ears. Her scent was the one thing that still blazed in his memory. He had always known that Simon's unique cocktail of sweetness and smoke would eventually haunt him.

 _Simon was a dream_.

Of course, Baz thought. Of course. It hadn’t been months of sleeping beside his boyfriend, his hands wrapped tightly around his torso, their bodies pressed together. If he woke up now he would be back at Watford, on his single bed, with a roommate who hated him instead of a boyfriend, and a Pavlovian response of longing every time someone burnt bacon or tapped cinnamon across their coffee. 

 _No_.

This wasn’t a dream. Baz wouldn’t allow it to be. He was set on never waking up if it was.

“Snow,” Baz said again. “Everything all right?” Simon stared at him, abandoning his task of making tea. A line of thought formed between his eyes. It took all of Baz’s control to not reach out and touch his boyfriend’s face. He couldn’t touch him now. He couldn’t afford to let his mind go blank. Simon smiled and gave a non-committal shrug.  

Baz sighed. “ _Simon_ ,” he said. He used the other boy’s name like a plea.

Simon exhaled, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open. “What’s wrong?” He breathed out quickly, his voice raspy from lack of use.

Baz sighed again, this time in relief. “Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“You worried me. You never use my name.” Simon growled.

Baz shrugged. “You’ve been quiet today.”

“I’m _always_ quiet.”

“It felt different this time.”

Simon dropped his eyes. “Oh,” he said hesitantly.

Baz frowned. It wasn’t the response he had been expecting.

\----

**SIMON**

Simon assumed Baz wouldn’t notice. He thought he was being careful, that it wasn’t all that obvious he had gone the day without speaking. He was always quiet. And Baz, above anyone else, knew he had trouble using his words properly. He had woken up knowing he wanted to spend the day in silence—no, knowing he _needed_ to spend the day in silence. It was the only way he could think through his twisted words without risking them spilling out prematurely.

It was a problem of his; _premature word spillage_.

It was a problem he had experienced with Baz before. Painfully _,_ and on numerous occasions.

In fact, it was one occasion in particular that scarred a certain part of Simon’s heart, leaving an impression deep enough for him to actually try and exercise some control over his words with his boyfriend. It was almost a year ago now. Back when Baz wasn’t so gentle and almost never agreeable. Back when Simon was still sure his roommate hated him. Back at Watford.

It was a cliché. A drunken mistake. A mess. Two boys, neither willing to admit they loved the other, neither willing to believe the other could love them. Simon would never forget it. He kissed Baz first. Messily, hungrily, years of want pouring into his mouth, his back pressed tightly against a wall on a building he couldn’t remember ever seeing before.

Earlier in the night he and Baz had attended Agatha Wellbelove’s party. She was constantly throwing gatherings for their year, for no reason other than she wanted to. She always used to say to him: “Simon, you don’t need a reason to throw a party. A worthy party happens organically, without the need to tremble behind a _theme_ or an _occasion_.” 

It was common for both Simon and Baz to attend the same parties. Each cohort was small at Watford, and students spent eight years sharing the same set of experiences with only thirty people. It was a bond that surpassed hate when it came to social gatherings. Everyone was always invited, regardless of any potential drama or sore spots.

That night Simon had been unable to tear his eyes away from Baz. More so than usual. Something about him seemed off. He noticed that his steps weren’t as stable as they usually were, and his stature seemed small. He wasn’t dominating the room, something as distinctive about him as his shoulder length raven hair. Simon had been worried, a feeling that only grew when Baz stumbled out the door without saying a single goodbye to anyone. A million worst case scenarios flew through Simon’s mind. It was dark and Baz was alone— what if he fell and got hurt? What if someone jumped him? It never occurred to Simon that Baz was likely the scariest thing out there.

Simon followed after him, confused when Baz turned between two buildings, away from their shared dorm. It had been too dark for Simon to see, but he followed after Baz anyway, holding on to an occasional glimpse he caught of his navy coat, or the outline of his tall frame. In hindsight, it was one of his more idiotic choices. He had willingly followed a boy he was convinced wanted him dead down a path he was certain wasn’t meant for boys like him.

It was a path for boys like Baz.

When his back had hit stone and someone leaned close to his ear, their fingers grasping at his jumper, he didn’t feel fear. It was relief. He already knew who it was.

“ _Stop_ following me.” Baz’s voice was smooth, his mouth hot, his scent overwhelming. Something stirred in Simon’s stomach, something that made him want to lean over and clutch at his mid-section tightly. He was too drunk. He started to think the things he told himself not to, the things that did no good to think about.

Baz gripped the front of his jumper like he was ready to fight. Simon could only stare in return, trying to remember if he had ever been so close to him before. It was then he noticed the tears in Baz’s eyes, the twist of pain in his features. “Baz?” He said softly, a hand reaching up to touch Baz’s face. He hadn’t realized what he had been doing until Baz seized his wrist; strong fingers digging into soft flesh.

“Shut up!”

“I didn’t —”

“Shut—”

“Are you okay?”

Baz inhaled sharply, his grey eyes focusing irritably on Simon like he had said something insulting. Simon’s words were genuine. He had been concerned, and he knew Baz had heard the concern in his voice. He hadn't been trying to hide it. He had, after all, let an unmistakable crease of worry form between his eyes.

“Snow, I hate you.” Baz hissed, rather unnecessarily in Simon's opinion.

He already knew this.

Still, in that moment, he refused to look away. Instead, he rolled his eyes and titled his head a little higher, an attempt to make up the difference in their height. “I know, you git. What’s wrong?” He hadn't meant for the words to be stuttered, but they had been. He also hadn't planned for Baz to seriously answer the question. But, he had, with slumped shoulders and a softening of his grip on Simon's wrist. It was like the air had been drawn out of him, like he was finally letting Simon see him, and Simon had been pleased. Because if anyone was going to see Baz being real, and raw, and crying, he wanted it to be him.

“She would hate me,” Baz whispered heavily.

Simon remembered frowning, confusion fogging his mind. He felt nothing but confused around Baz. “Who? Agatha? She doesn’t hate—” Baz laughed, a dark and bitter sound. “Good lord, Snow. Not bloody Agatha Wellbelove. Is that all you ever think about?”

Simon had shaken his head. “No. Not just her. I think about you. So much. I think…” He stopped talking. For the first time in his life he had said too much. He said it without meaning to. The words were just there, ready to jump out, before he even had a chance to tell them it wasn’t the right time.

Baz stood frozen, his eyes still watering, his grip fading only to tighten once more. “Don’t do that." He had practically spat the words at Simon.

“Do what?”

“Say cruel things.”

Simon shook his head again. “I’m not. I mean it.” He leaned closer. “I can’t stop.”

Sometimes, Simon could still perfectly recall the look Baz had on his face in that moment. It was utterly bewildered, like Simon was fucking insane.

“Why would you say that?” He finally asked, his eyes narrowing in distrust.

“I don’t know.”

Baz had arched one of his merciless eyebrows in response.

“I mean. I just—”Simon stammered, his face reddening. “I mean I do know. I said it because it’s true.”

“Don’t be careless with your words, Snow.” Baz sneered.

It had been a punch right to Simon’s weakness, and Simon had felt the hurt roll over him. He told himself not to cry. Words _were_ his weakness, but he hadn't been careless, not with Baz. The first words that tumbled out might have been an accident, but that didn't make them untrue. And, after—after he had been speaking from his heart. His heart that had been beating too hard, causing his legs to tremble and his hands to shake.

He had never wanted to say words more than he did in that moment.

Simon hadn't been able to respond. He had exhaled shakily, feeling the tears he explicitly told not to come starting behind his eyes. He couldn’t understand why Baz always had to be so…. _Baz-like_. There was no other way for him to describe it. His legs had nearly buckled when cool fingers brushed his cheek. “Snow, why on earth are you crying?” Baz whispered gently. It was the softest Simon had ever heard Baz’s voice. Something inside him snapped, a liquid warmth spreading through him, knowing Baz had made his voice that way for him. He had let the sharpness from his words drop to comfort _him_ of all people.

Simon bit his lip. He had thought about the impossibility of telling Baz the reason he was crying. How could he have ever explained it? He had been crying because words were threatening to spill out, words he hadn't been sure Baz would want to hear. His tears had also been _for_ Baz, because he was hurt, and Simon wanted to help him. He had been crying because of words and helping, and because neither would do any good. He had felt adamantly about it at the time. Crying had seemed like the only real option.

“My mother,” Baz said softly. Simon had looked up, his watery blue eyes searching Baz’s face. “I worry. I think she would be rather disappointed in me. I did something tonight she wouldn’t have liked.”

Simon scrunched his face. He didn’t understand what Baz meant. He had spent most of that night watching him. He couldn’t think of a single disappointing thing Baz had done. Honestly, he couldn’t think of a single disappointing thing about Baz at all. 

“She wouldn’t hate you,” Simon offered. He was sure. How could she? Baz was lovely. Beautiful. Brilliant. A sharpness and clarity to him that made Simon’s mind twirl and his heart flutter.

He loved him.

He thought everyone should.

“You don’t know that. I’m… I’m a disappointment, Snow. All I do is disappoint.”

“I don’t think so.”

Baz had stared at him.

Simon had licked his lips.

He leaned even closer to Baz. “Not to me,” he said unsteadily. “ _Never_ to me.”

And then he kissed him.

Baz’s mouth felt cold against his own, and for a single moment Simon took control. He kissed Baz like he would never get another chance.

Baz shoved him harder against the wall and pulled his head back sooner than Simon would have liked. He laughed, that same dark, brittle sound. “Is this supposed to comfort me, Snow? Is this pity? Save it, you arrogant fuck.” His words had been harsh, and his breath collected vehemently on Simon’s neck. Simon had only felt a deep pull in his stomach, a tingling sensation running up his legs. Baz’s hips pressed into his own.

“I don’t. I didn’t mean it like—I’m only. _Baz_ —”

He stopped being able to form coherent thoughts the moment Baz ran his hands up and under his jumper. He dragged his fingertips down the length of Simon’s spine, and Simon shivered. “Your hands, they...um, they're...a bit...uh, cold.” Simon had whispered stupidly, they were the only words he had been able to properly articulate. Truthfully, Simon couldn’t have cared less about the temperature of Baz’s hands. In that moment, as he titled his head back and closed his eyes, the rest of him was made of fire.

Baz had sighed and then leaned closer to Simon. “Snow. I’m giving you a single chance to walk away. Take it now.” It had been a threat of ambiguous proportions. Simon couldn’t have known the right choice to make—stay or go. But, he knew he didn’t want to leave, not if staying meant he could kiss Baz again. If it meant he would be given a proper chance to commit the texture of Baz’s skin and the taste of his mouth to memory. Simon dipped his head and thoughts back to earth. He had studied Baz, the rise and fall of his chest, his black hair falling into his eyes, a steel gaze fixed on him. He had no idea what he was thinking. He didn’t try and pretend to know. Baz was impossible to read on a good day. All he knew was that he couldn’t have walked away even if he tried. His legs were too weak. His mind too muddled with things we had never experienced before: a want and need so deep it felt like breathing. 

He pressed his mouth against Baz's lips in response. Baz stilled, and Simon took control again. He had liked it, having Baz right in front of him, not off thinking evil things about him. He liked kissing Baz. That had been very evident. He slowly dragged his tongue over Baz’s lips and pushed into his mouth. It wasn't enough. Simon growled and pulled Baz even closer, and when he felt Baz's heart beating just as quick as his own, he knew he was _finally_ going to admit that he wanted this just as much as Simon. 

Baz kissed him back, deeper than Simon had thought possible. He kissed him like he was trying to taste the depths of the ocean, like there was no limit, like there was no hope in hell for survival. Survival of what, Simon wasn't sure. But he fucking loved how it felt. It was a collision, they were fighting in a new way, and Simon couldn’t stop the warmth spreading through him or the obnoxious smile he knew was plastered to his face. Baz touched him as they kissed; touched him gently, a hand running up his back, another pressed softly to his cheek. It was a contradiction to the fierce way he was exploring his mouth. It was enough to make Simon want to cry all over again. 

They had kissed in an alley, under the cover of darkness and the impunity of alcohol. They could be a little reckless, a little needy, because in the morning they could blame it on one too many mixed drinks.

Simon was shaking when Baz’s hands had eventually found the button on his trousers. He pressed his mouth hotly to Simon’s ear just as his hands were sliding down the front of his pants, his long fingers curling around him. “Don’t you dare fucking regret this,” he hissed. Simon, again, was rendered speechless. He wouldn’t. He had already known he never would.

It didn't take much for him to make a deep sound in the back of his throat, a sound Baz seemed rather fond of, his mouth tracing the sound as Simon swallowed. Everything Baz had been doing felt… _unbearably_ good. He brushed his face against Baz’s, his lips catching on his sharp features—his nose, his cheekbones, the edge of his jaw. He wanted to be closer. To feel more. It was awkward at times, and Simon’s back would inevitably be scratched in the morning from the rough stone wall. But, he hadn't cared. Nothing else had mattered to him but their struggling exhales and the wave that ran through his body every time Baz rubbed his slender hips harder against him. When Simon came, he let out a gruff moan, and then bit the space between Baz's collarbone and neck as hard as he could. Baz hadn't wavered, he half-laughed, and Simon committed the sound to his memory. 

After, they had both shared a few moments of quiet. Baz, still panting, steadied himself and sunk against Simon’s body. He pulled Simon closer, his hands clutching to his hips tightly in a needy gesture. It didn't go unnoticed by Simon. He had flushed, thoughts of Baz’s hands, sticky with him, swirling in his brain.

He had felt euphoric as he titled his head up and kissed Baz softly on the jaw. He had felt brave. He had been prepared to return the favour. He _wanted_ to. Desperately. His hands were already reaching towards Baz’s own pressed trousers. Of course, Simon hadn't been surprised when he managed to fuck everything up before he got the chance to even undo a button. He hadn't been thinking clearly. He was still lost in his head, lost in the pleasure of Baz. He had been mumbling. His idiotic brain not able to filter the thoughts racing around his mind. He mumbled out vowels and consonants that took on a life of their own.

“ _Jesus_. Look at you. I think I’m in love with you.” He whispered as his lips trailed over Baz’s dark skin.

Baz cursed, and then all too suddenly his hands released Simon's hips and there was a cavern of space between them. Simon felt the twinge of regret instantly.

“You _think_?” Baz had raised an eyebrow.

Simon, still to this day, wasn't exactly sure what had pissed Baz off. It might have been the fact that he had unintentionally sounded ambivalent by using the phrase _I think_. Ambivalence, he would later learn, was a trait as despicable and unworthy as carelessness in the eyes of Baz. Or, it might have been that Simon’s feelings meant someone cared for Baz. Simon knew, probably more than anyone, that Baz had issues. _Complexes_. One of which was most certainly an inability to accept love from others. Not that Baz had told him this, but he wasn’t as clueless as people always assumed. He listened and he noticed. And he thought perhaps his confession had thrown Baz in such a way that anger had been the only reaction he could grasp to in the moment.

Regardless, in that moment, Baz was more ruthless than he had ever been before.

“I mean—”

“You’re easy to please, Snow. One half-arsed hand job and you fancy yourself in love. Fuck, you’re so pathetic. I don’t need _this_.”

And though he had said _need_ and _this_ , Simon had heard _want_ and _you_.

Baz had turned abruptly and left Simon staring after him in a dark alley. He hadn't been able to follow him. He was already crying—he couldn’t give Baz another reason to call him pathetic. He had thought the moment meant something, that Baz had wanted him. His chest ached and his legs shuddered. He sat down, with his trousers still undone, and sobbed.

Baz eventually apologized for that night, three months later, when he crawled into Simon’s bed at half past three in the morning and told him he was wanted. He wanted to be his boyfriend. He asked him on a proper date, and Simon couldn’t imagine any scenario where he didn’t say yes.

He forgave Baz, easily.

But, he hadn’t forgiven himself for being so careless. He hadn’t allowed himself to confess what he did that first night again.

\---

Simon could feel Baz staring at him now. He flushed and tried to busy himself making his tea again.

This is what he meant.

Baz was looking at him like he was half-mad. Which, maybe he was.

His mind wandered. Like a dog that chased a squirrel and then saw a duck. One minute he was in a park and the next he was by a pond, with no idea how he got from A to B. And now, of course, Simon couldn't stop thinking about his initial confession. He had meant it then. But, he couldn't be the first to say it _again_. The fact that Baz hadn’t said it was worrying. It made Simon wonder. It made him question. Perhaps, he felt more. Perhaps, he loved more. Baz wasn’t exactly the squishy, affectionate type. 

He sighed. That wasn’t exactly true anymore. Simon noticed the changes. The softness. The tenderness. The delicate kisses in his hair, the hushed tones— a million pretty words telling Simon he was loved.

But, he hadn’t actually said _I love you_.

Did that matter?

Should it matter?

It had been on Simon’s mind for several days. Months, really. But the last few days the thought manifested itself more strongly. He could think of nothing else. He was madly in love with Baz Pitch, and he desperately wanted to tell him. Which was why he had spent the day in silence, to think everything through before it all came out in a mess like last time.

But, now. Now he could no longer bring himself to care if Baz wanted him to say it or not. He was prepared for a repeat of that first night. He was prepared to say it properly now, in a way where Baz couldn’t mistake a single syllable for ambivalence. He looked up at Baz, who was still watching him intently with his beautiful grey eyes. It was Simon's favourite physical feature of his boyfriend. He found a lot of things he needed by looking into Baz's eyes. Strength. Courage. Happiness.

He decided he _needed_ to tell him. It felt selfish to keep this to himself. 

He was prepared.

\---

**BAZ**

Simon had his eyes glued to Baz’s face, but Baz knew he had disappeared somewhere in his head. He was often lost in his thoughts, and Baz could always tell. He always wanted to ask him what it was like in his head.  He wondered if Simon could visualize his thoughts more clearly than most. Was he chasing paths of memories? Following sounds, smells, and emotions until he arrived at the memory he wanted?  Is that why it took so long? He wondered if he saw the world in different hues and shades. He imagined he would spend more time in his head too if his thoughts were organized differently. If he didn’t have an almost mechanical approach to memories. He had an endless curiosity in him for how Simon’s mind worked.

Baz’s heartbeat quickened when Simon’s eyes focused more and as he let out a sigh. What if he was thinking about leaving? What if he finally realized his mistake? Baz knew he wasn’t easy to date. He had never dated anyone else before. Largely because he had never felt the pull or the connection he felt with Simon with anyone else, and he just didn't see the point if it wasn't going to feel like it would with Simon. That didn’t mean he hadn’t flirted though, or given out false hope to others any chance he got, because on some fucked up level it made him feel better. He _could_ have dated someone else. Or even just fucked someone else. But, he didn’t. He never took it that far.

Not even the summer he spent sneaking into seedy pubs, trying to forget his feelings. A summer where several arguably more attractive men had whispered in his ear and told him how handsome he was, how mysterious he looked. He spent that summer listening to men who knew exactly what to say to someone like him. Someone who enjoyed having people think he was clever, and attractive, and powerful. He didn’t mind admitting that. He liked it. Even then though, he never felt the desire to do anything more than feign interest to get a free drink or smoke.

It was always going to be Simon for him.

But, that also meant he knew he was difficult. He had been told numerous times. By many different people.

His father, when he refused to take over the Grimm Company or date Agatha Wellbelove. “Why do you make everything difficult for our family, Basil?” Had been his exact words. And then Agatha Wellbelove herself had told him something eerily similar when she finally tried to kiss him after a night of shameless flirting, and he told her he wasn't interested. He had only flirted for the sheer amusement of watching Simon fluster in jealously.

There was also the random bloke he had teased for a free drink and then abruptly told to fuck off. He could feel his anger and disappointment, like something palpable in the room as he shouted at him. “Don’t fool yourself. You’re nothing more than a brat with a fuckable face! It won't last.”

And of course there was Penelope Bunce, who had tried to form a friendship with him after he started dating Simon. Penelope was Simon’s best friend and Baz actually quite liked her, but he still couldn’t bring himself to be civil most of the time. “For fuck sakes, Baz. _Stop_ being difficult. Get over yourself and try to have a decent conversation with me, yeah?”

Baz sighed. He knew he needed to ask Simon how he felt, even if he didn’t want to, even if it meant the demise of his own happiness. He knew there was a chance Simon wouldn’t admit his reservations until prompted. And the only thing worse than losing Simon would be making him stay when he wasn’t happy.

“Snow, is everything okay, honestly? I know I can be…difficult. I know—”

“I love you,” Simon blurted out, like he hadn’t been listening to the beginning of Baz’s musings at all.  

Baz frowned. He couldn’t have heard that right.

“What?”

“I know you think it’s desperate and weak of me. But, I can’t keep it to myself. I want to tell you. I want you to know. I love you. I love you so much it hurts. You’re all I can think about. I just— I really fucking love you.” Simon rushed through, breathless and flushed at the end, but he didn’t stutter, he didn’t once trip. The words came out quickly and a little messily, but Baz couldn’t help thinking that it was quite possibly the most beautiful combination of words he had ever heard.  

“Simon, you glorious idiot.” He said affectionately.

Simon looked up at him, those unremarkable blue eyes watering, and Baz felt his heart swell. He felt himself fill with warmth. He filled himself with Simon’s words, with his love, and he pushed everything else out. He pushed out his anger for not saying his own words sooner. He didn’t hold onto his regret for how he had treated Simon, especially that night he first confessed, when all Baz had wanted was to whisper back that of course he loved him too. Baz pushed out his self-hate for how _he_ was the one who carelessly tossed out words, not thinking that someone like Simon might hold onto them a little too literally. He didn’t let himself slip into his spiral of self-doubt.

He only held onto Simon’s love. He let himself feel _only_ that.

“I love you,” he said to Simon. Confidently. Resolutely. In a way that wouldn’t leave Simon with a single reservation about the truth and strength of his words. Simon stared up at him, unblinking, and they both smiled, unhurriedly, shyly, sweetly— a shared smile, because they had a new secret to keep together. A new promise. A new set of words to explore.

Baz stepped closer to his boyfriend, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him forward. He kissed his lips softly. “From the very first moment, Simon, I’ve loved you. I love you.” Simon’s breath deepened, and his sugary-smoky scent filled Baz’s lungs. He felt another swell of warmth. He was so stupid. Why hadn’t he said this sooner? _He_ was the pathetic one.

“I love this,” Baz said, kissing Simon’s hair.

“And _this_.” He kissed Simon’s nose.

“And _this_.” He kissed the mole over Simon’s left eye.

“And this, and _this_.” He kissed each of his ears.

“I love everything about you.” Baz kissed his boyfriend’s left cheek and then his right.

“I love you.” He kissed Simon’s lips.

“Oh, and I love _this_ too.” He kissed Simon's chin, right where the sharpness of his jaw started to round.

Simon stood perfectly still, fluttering his eyes open and close at each new kiss.

“Mmm, and this.” Baz whispered against Simon’s neck.

He didn’t stop. He lifted Simon’s jumper over his head.

“Haven’t I told you this before?” Baz asked wickedly.

Simon laughed, his stillness gone as he grabbed at Baz’s hips. “No, you git,” he said firmly.

Baz smirked. “Well, I certainly thought it. Can’t you read my mind yet?”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Cheeky bastard.” His hands massaged the skin across Baz’s lower abdomen. Baz leaned into his touch.

“I love you, Simon. All of you. I… I don’t want to ever stop telling you.”

“So don’t.” Simon shrugged.

Baz smiled and pulled Simon into his chest.

He said I love you again, and again.

He didn’t stop as he led them towards the bed. He said it again as he pressed Simon into the mattress, hovering over him. He said it again as he kissed down the length of his body, skimming his lips over his favourite moles— the one in the centre of Simon’s broad chest, the one below his heart, the one on his right hip bone, he even managed to turn Simon enough to reach the one that dipped onto his left glute.

He said it again, and again.

\---

“I love you,” Simon whispered. His voice was strained, his breathing heavy.

Baz’s insides twisted.

He hadn't thought Simon could make it sound any better.

He was wrong.

He _loved_ when Simon proved him wrong.

He pushed deeper into him.

Simon said it again.

Baz said it again.

Again.

Again.

He wouldn’t stop saying it.

He couldn’t imagine it was even possible anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> The last section, where Baz is pointing out all the things he loves about Simon, is based on/ an adapted part of The Song of Achilles. (Another excellent book!). I completly spaced on the reference as I was writing, but it 100% did influence that section. So I figured I would include it here. As always, this is just a fanfic. So I'm borrowing any characters and references :).


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